


Nexus

by nebulia



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anxiety, Autistic Character, Friendship, Future Fic, Golden route, Introspection, Lightly Unreliable Narration, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nonbinary Character, One-Sided Telepathy, Other, Pining, Sickfic, Telepathy, alternate universe - cherry magic au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:21:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29489691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulia/pseuds/nebulia
Summary: [“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Dimitri says, gesturing towards his girdle-book, and Felix turns around to face him. Strangely, two spots of pink show up high on his cheeks.“Right,” he grits out, still furious, and reaches out to grip Dimitri’s forearm. “Happy birthday, you boar.”He’s lucky I love him.Dimitri steps backward so quickly he almost stumbles. Felix’s glare intensifies. “What.”“I meant your book,” Dimitri manages to say, pointing to the girdle-book on the side table. He tries to compose himself, and mostly fails. “But th-thank you, Felix. I--I cherish being able to spend another year with you in my life.”Felix rolls his eyes, snatching the book off the table. “Nine o’clock and I’ll come after you if you’re late,” he says, like nothing wildly strange likeFelix saying he loved Dimitrijust happened, and leaves.]
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Hapi, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 30
Kudos: 46
Collections: 2021 Dimilix Week





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not quite written *for* Dimilix Week, but nicely fits the day 4 themes of "secrets" and "winter," so it felt appropriate to start posting today! thanks to katie for the second pair of eyes 💕
> 
> I watched Cherry Magic and went "Dimilix should do this." This hits about four narrative beats tops from the show, so you definitely don't need to have seen the show to follow the trajectory of this fic! 
> 
> Dimitri is nonbinary and uses he/him pronouns. Felix is autistic. 
> 
> Content notes: this fic is about a character with severe, chronic mental illness. It takes place during a relatively stable point in his health but references rougher times, mostly non-graphically, as well as canon-typical Dimitri brainworms. Individual chapters will have more detailed warnings if necessary, but this isn't a fic about mental illness, just about a person living with it. 
> 
> Overall content warning: Dimitri's personal support team also helps him with medicinal intervention, which is not ethical or recommended (by me or otherwise) in the real world.
> 
> This chapter: Dimitri has a lot of anxiety that he's having another relapse/episode of poor mental health.

The morning of Dimitri’s thirtieth birthday, he wakes up mad. 

A new sort of mad: Dimitri has been mad for seventeen years and will almost certainly be mad until he dies. He will always live with voices whispering from just far enough away he can’t make out the words, with figures of the dead shimmering at the edge of his vision, with a mind that sometimes skitters off of words and thoughts like a rock across an icy lake. He mitigates many of the nightmares, the thoughts of suicide, and even the worst of the mood swings with tinctures and teas in a cocktail he and Dedue and Mercedes have spent years perfecting and which will always need fine-tuning; he mitigates the headaches and phantom pain in his missing eye with a spell Marianne von Edmund invented while caring for injured soldiers. He maintains a strictly regulated sleep and meal schedule even when he lies sleeplessly in bed or the tasteless food turns to ash in his mouth. He doesn’t search for sanity, but stability. 

But on the morning of Dimitri’s thirtieth birthday, something new happens. 

It starts out like any other morning; he wakes up well before the first hint of twilight and dozes for an hour before he gets up. Being the solstice, it’ll be blue night all day, and it’s dark and chilly in his room, but he stokes the banked fire and is putting on a fresh pair of Ithan wool socks by the time his housekeeper, Jacqueline, bustles in with breakfast and his morning medicinals. She sets the tray on the table next to his chair in front of the crackling fire, and then smiles at him, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. “Happy birthday, Your Majesty,” she says warmly, and at the same time he hears her voice say _He must have slept well--for him--last night._

Dimitri’s head snaps up. “What?” he says.

Jacqueline smiles at him as though nothing is wrong. “Did you forget what day it is? Happy birthday!” She pats his shoulder. _He’s so distractible_ , her voice says, though her mouth doesn’t move. _He’s lucky he has so many people to keep him in line._

“You’re right,” Dimitri says, and belatedly realizes all she’s actually done is wish him a happy birthday. “Thank you, Jacqueline.” 

She leaves to fetch his valet, and Dimitri blinks at the fire. 

He’s heard voices before. But this was different. Jacqueline’s voice was so...benign. She wasn’t even talking to him. It was like he was hearing her thoughts. 

Dimitri feels quite lucid, though that means little. Jacqueline didn’t seem concerned for his wellbeing, which means more. His breakfast sits innocuously on the table, along with his tea and morning tincture and the salve he puts on his hands in the winter. No maggots writhe in his porridge. The tea is the color of tea and not of blood. When he looks into the fire he can still see people burning alive, as he always does, but he can’t hear the screams. His hands--and shoulders, and left knee and hip--are stiff, the way they are on cold winter mornings, but the pain isn’t heat streaking down his veins, and the skin of his fingers is simply the scarred, mottled white and pink it always is instead of black-veined or covered in viscera and mud. Nothing seems unusual or out of sorts. 

Except Jacqueline talking about him without moving her mouth. 

Dimitri drinks his tea in three big gulps, burning his tongue, and downs the tincture with equal enthusiasm before his valet comes in. Balwin is quieter than Dedue, but he too wishes Dimitri a happy birthday before helping him with the laces of his tunic and surcoat. When he touches Dimitri, suddenly he starts speaking, in that same strange way Jacqueline had: _It looks like snow today. Should I insist His Majesty wear the heavier wool surcoat with the slit sleeves? No, but I will give him the wool gloves. I wonder if Mathilde has seen the flowers yet. Maybe I should have waited until after the party tonight to give them to her--_

“Balwin?” Dimitri says. 

“Hmm, Your Majesty?” _Who am I fooling, she probably doesn’t even know my name. I’ll get His Majesty the lined boots, too. I hope no one teases her for the flowers--_

“Did you--say something?” 

“No, Your Majesty?” Balwin says. _She always smiles at me when she sees me. I bet she smiles at everyone though. I’m such a fool. It is chilly today. I think I’ll convince his majesty to wear the sleeved surcoat today after all. And go back to my room and get my hat--_ Balwin’s mouth isn’t moving, the same still line it always is. _He can be so stubborn, though, but I think he’ll be cold--_

“I think I’ll wear the wool surcoat with the slit sleeves today,” Dimitri says, if only to stop Balwin’s anxious waffling, which is making Dimitri himself anxious. “It’s colder than expected today, isn’t it? More like Guardian Moon.”

 _Oh, thank the Goddess,_ Balwin’s voice says, face unmoving, as silent as always, as he nods and reaches for the other surcoat. _Maybe today will be okay after all. Maybe Mathilde likes the flowers. Maybe she--who am I kidding, I can’t even get a word out when I talk to her, she probably thinks I’m a fool._ He finishes lacing the sides and back of the tunic. “Do you want a scarf?” _He might not need one, but he should take it just in case. The Star Chamber has that draft--_

“Please,” Dimitri says after a moment, distracted by the constant chatter Balwin is radiating without moving his mouth. “How about the one that was a gift from Gideon?” Really, it was a bribe from Gideon, but Dimitri has learned tact.

 _The bribe from Gideon, he means,_ Balwin thinks, and Dimitri bites back a bark of hysterical laughter. What is _happening_? Balwin steps away from smoothing Dimitri’s tunic, and Dimitri’s head goes as quiet as it ever does. He hands Dimitri the angora scarf, dyed Blaiddyd blue, and Dimitri puts it on himself, tucking his chin into the folds of it. He can see his breath. 

“These gloves, Your Majesty?” Balwin presents him with a pair of midweight wool gloves, thin enough that holding a quill will be easy even with Dimitri’s stiff fingers. He helps Dimitri into them, and his stream of consciousness picks back up, to Dimitri’s distress: _But if she liked them--oh Goddess, what then? I don’t know what I’d do. I wonder if I could ask His Majesty for advice._

Dimitri only just manages to swallow more hysteria as Balwin fastens the wrist buttons of his gloves. I’m as clueless as you are, he thinks.

 _No, I shouldn’t,_ Balwin continues as he ushers Dimitri over to the chair. “A braid?” he asks, and Dimitri nods. _That would probably be inappropriate. I guess one of the other valets might be...oh Goddess, either way, I’m fucked. Why did I even think giving Mathilde flowers was a good idea?_

Dimitri’s not sure what it means, that he’s begun inventing a chatty, anxious internal world for Balwin. 

Balwin braids his hair quickly. Dimitri can pull it back himself, but his hands lack the dexterity for a braid. He should probably cut his hair back to the length he’d worn it since the war, but Mercedes recently commented how pretty it was and...it _is_ pretty. Dimitri never really feels pretty, or knew he wanted to feel pretty, but he liked when Mercedes said that, so he hasn’t cut it yet. It’s not long, just a little longer than usual, long enough to braid back. 

A strand is already coming out of his braid when Balwin ties it off, as though Balwin really is as distracted as the thoughts Dimitri’s mind is creating for him implies he is. 

“Thank you, Balwin,” he says, standing, and Balwin steps away and bows. Dimitri fights a sigh of relief as the thoughts cease, his head going quiet but for his own raucous brain. “You’re dismissed.” 

As Balwin leaves and Dimitri settles back in his chair, about to eat his cooling porridge--because even when he seems to be going mad anew he should stick to his routine--Felix comes in, in practice clothes and sword at his hip, with his own breakfast tray. Usually he arrives earlier, while Balwin’s still helping Dimitri dress, and is half-done eating by the time Dimitri heads into the sitting room. 

“Overslept?” Dimitri says lightly. Felix never oversleeps, and is rarely late for their joint breakfast/morning confab. Dimitri’s voice cracks during the tease, belying his anxiety, but Felix is too busy scowling to notice.

“ _No_ ,” Felix snaps. “The kitchens were in uproar about the feast tonight, and the scullery staff was all twitterpated about someone getting flowers from their true love, or something.” 

Dimitri chokes on his porridge.

“What,” Felix says. “Don’t tell me _you_ sent them.”

Dimitri takes a gulp of water straight from the decanter on the table and smacks his own chest. “No,” he says. “I think...Balwin did?” 

Felix shoots him a wary look. “Your valet,” he says flatly. “Who’s so quiet he makes Molinaro look chatty.” 

“Ye-es?” Dimitri says, hoping Felix still thinks his voice still sounds weak from choking and not because he’s suddenly considering his own insanity might be true. He sucks in a breath, trying to quell the rush of anxiety that floods his limbs, making the tips of his fingers nauseous. 

Felix looks at him and shakes his head, taking a bite of a winter apple. He eats a more substantial breakfast than Dimitri, and Dimitri enjoys the smell of his sausage while he eats his porridge. 

Felix still eats like a soldier: he shovels food in his mouth as quickly as possible, chewing like a squirrel. He frowns as he does, always thinking; two furrows have started to settle in between his brows with time, but only a few people would notice, since Felix frowns most of the time anyway. “What?” he says, mouth full, when he catches Dimitri looking. 

“Nothing,” Dimitri says. He gets up to brew himself some more tea, rose petal blend for the morning instead of the more herbal medicinal tea he drinks first thing. He’d make chamomile despite the hour--the scent still soothes him and he’s jittery with adrenaline--but Felix would undoubtedly find it odd in the morning, would know something was off. The rose petal scent is soothing too, anyway. Felix finishes off his plate while he does, setting the remnants on one of the side tables while he pulls his girdle-book from his belt and flips it open. 

“There’s a meeting with the Star Chamber at nine o’clock,” he says. “I’m sure they’ll complain that you haven’t gotten married yet and you’re already thirty.” 

“Yes, and my health is failing, and I won’t live past fifty, and I need to get on with the producing of little Blaiddyd heirs,” Dimitri says, ignoring Felix’s darkening expression. “They do this every year.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Felix snarls. “Stop spouting their garbage. You’re not near death. The cough you get every Guardian Moon isn’t as bad as it used to be, and you actually eat and sleep regularly.” He reaches out to place Dimitri’s half-eaten porridge bowl back in his hands and glares at him, like he can single-handedly force Dimitri into living past fifty. 

“I am in better health than I’ve been in a long time,” Dimitri says carefully, and takes a bite. It’s true, but the worst of winter is yet to come, and he may yet fare poorly. “Still, the Star Chamber thrives on the worst-case scenario, and while Galatea and Gideon are the only noisy opponents left, the majority still has minimal interest in an alternative to crestogeniture. They’ll want to spend most of the meeting discussing prospects.” 

Felix’s face gives away what he thinks of that, but he pushes on. “After that mess, there’s a formal greeting ceremony for the King, Queen, Emperor, and Great Lords.”

“Semi-formal,” Dimitri says, making what he decides is a royal proclamation, Felix as his witness. “It’s cold; I’m not putting on plate armor for it.” If he could wear his preferred leather armor, maybe, but tradition calls for the shining Blaiddyd armor, and once the wind has chilled the metal to freezing his joints protest mightily even with the gambeson and quilted chausses. 

“The Star Chamber won’t like that.” 

“I thought they wanted to save my failing health?” 

Felix snorts, and flips a page. “Then in the afternoon there’s a hunt for the wild boar that’s been spotted in the woods near the eastern Talitean.” He lifts an eyebrow at Dimitri. “Wear bright colors, or they’ll mix the two of you up. And tonight is the ball.” 

Aside from the boar hunt, it’s a marginal day; Dimitri isn’t fond of social events and Star Chamber meetings are guaranteed to leave him with a pounding headache. Still, focusing on the material schedule helps keep the anxiety of the morning’s events at bay. He hasn’t had any issues with Felix yet, so perhaps whatever was happening this morning has passed.

Felix finishes his mug of tea as Dimitri gets up to fetch the kettle from the fire. “More tea?” he asks, and Felix sneers at the rose-sweet scent. 

“Why would you ever think I would drink that nonsense? Maybe you _are_ getting old.” 

“It’s polite to offer,” Dimitri says.

“Not that dreck it’s not,” Felix grumbles. He stands up, picking up his tray. “I’ll see you in an hour and a half for the Star Chamber meeting. I assume you’re not sparring this morning.” He shoots Dimitri an extremely disapproving look.

“Paperwork,” Dimitri says, standing as well, hot mug in hand. “I’m taking the afternoon off, I have to make it up sometime.” Sitting at his desk sounds unappealing despite the cold; he’d rather move his stiff muscles and Felix is one of the few sparring partners he can devote near his full strength to, but he can’t avoid his duty. 

Felix’s face gets, impossibly, more disapproving. “You’ll be useless this afternoon,” he says. “I’ll put money on Sylvain taking the boar, then.” 

“Betting against Petra is a bad move,” Dimitri replies. 

“Both you and Sylvain are better with a javelin,” Felix counters. “But if you’re going in stiff from sitting all morning, you won’t be competition at all.” 

“If you’re trying to convince me to come spar with you by appealing to my admittedly competitive nature, forget it. I owe Rowe and Mateus a stack of parchment each by the Star Chamber meeting since I won’t be in my office this afternoon.” He lifts an eyebrow at Felix--he doesn’t get it naturally, like Felix does, but having one eye socket full of scar tissue has made it inevitable. “Trust me, Felix. I’d rather spend the next forty-five minutes knocking your blade from your hand than doing yet more paperwork.” 

If he were another person, Felix would be pouting. As it is, he just looks incandescently angry. 

“You are _useless_ ,” he snaps, and goes to leave. “I can’t even grind your face into the dirt properly.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Dimitri says, gesturing towards his girdle-book, and Felix turns around to face him. Strangely, two spots of pink show up high on his cheeks. 

“Right,” he grits out, still furious, and reaches out to grip Dimitri’s forearm. “Happy birthday, you boar.” 

_He’s lucky I love him._

Dimitri steps backward so quickly he almost stumbles. Felix’s glare intensifies. “What.” 

“I meant your book,” Dimitri manages to say, pointing to the girdle-book on the side table. He tries to compose himself, and mostly fails. “But th-thank you, Felix. I--I cherish being able to spend another year with you in my life.” 

Felix rolls his eyes, snatching the book off the table. “Nine o’clock and I’ll come after you if you’re late,” he says, like nothing wildly strange like _Felix saying he loved Dimitri_ just happened, and leaves.

Dimitri sits down and puts his head in his hands. He _has_ to be going mad. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [“Enjoying yourself?” Felix says finally. 
> 
> “As much as can be expected,” Dimitri answers. “You know I--don’t love these events.” Felix snorts. _You’re a terrible liar, Mitya. We all know you hate them._ “But it is good to see everyone.”
> 
> Felix hasn’t called him Mitya aloud since childhood, when almost everyone did. More proof this is merely Dimitri’s mind playing tricks on him, manifesting long-held desires, like being close to Felix again.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter: Social anxiety and distress around large social gatherings; Dimitri continues to have anxiety that he is having another relapse/episode of poor mental health. Turns out instead he has touch telepathy! Felix uses some ableist language.

Birthdays aren’t usually large events, but Dimitri has traveled multiple times this year for state visits disguised as thirtieth birthday celebrations. Marianne, being a Margrave and not formal royalty, was able to get away with hosting a series of visits from her close friends, but Khalid’s mother held one in the Fódlandy fashion in Almyra, and Edelgard’s was exceptionally grand (and tedious), as everything in Enbarr tends to be by tradition. His is almost intimate in comparison, but still too big for Dimitri’s tastes. Large social events make him nervous: the sensation of many voices talking at once has always played with his ability to focus. It sends him into a headspace that makes him feel out of control and paranoid. It’s difficult, even now, to determine real voices from false in a crowd. 

With the new madness that spawned this morning, it’s even worse. Over the course of the day he’s determined he can hear (?) the--thoughts? False thoughts?--of everyone he touches, and the contact only needs to be physical, not skin-to-skin. Sometimes he sees pictures, almost fantasies, and sometimes he only hears words. No one is speaking _to_ him--it’s all as though he’s overhearing, eavesdropping. He touches more people than he ever thought he did. All of it makes him want to go back to his rooms with a canister of good-smelling tea leaves and some weapons to sharpen and not come out for a good long while. 

Still, he has responsibilities. He dances with the other heads of state. Dedue, as the Duscur ambassador to Faerghus, politely turns him down, but Dimitri has to go through all the rest: Edelgard, whose thoughts wander from Hubert in Enbarr to the state of the roads between here and Adrestia to the size of the dark circle under Dimitri’s eye; Khalid, who notes that Dimitri looks tired while alternatively judging and complimenting the decorations and food; and Petra, who would much rather be discussing weaponry with Ashe and Ingrid, especially because Ingrid’s cheeks are fetchingly flushed from the mead, but _also_ frets about how Dimitri looks exhausted. He dances with the Archbishop as well, despite their diminished role in Fódlandy politics, and Byleth determines to ask Dimitri about his sleep schedule when they’re not enjoying themselves and having a nice conversation about a new bladesmith from Ordelia, and then decides to interrogate Felix, Ashe, and Ingrid as well to make sure he’s well. 

Once Dimitri’s danced with his political allies and Byleth, he can retire to his table on the dais in the ballroom and accept compliments from guests, who bow over his hand, which means he hears (imagines?) every one of their thoughts as they do so. Ferdinand hopes Edelgard didn’t negotiate anything he’ll have to smooth over while she and Dimitri were dancing; Bernadetta panics about her hair but thinks Dimitri should retire early so they can all go back to their rooms; Constance’s mind is on seeing Hapi and Yuri, but approvingly notes that Dimitri’s skin looks much better than the last time she saw him; Lorenz was arguing with Khalid and would like to return to doing so, but notices Dimitri looks weary; Lysithea is focused on some sort of conversation she was having with Annette, her mind moving so fast and using words so complicated Dimitri can’t hope to follow her; and so on. His closer friends are more focused: Sylvain thinks he looks tired (a new litany, apparently), Mercedes thinks his braid needs re-plaiting, Annette is proud of him for hosting an event like this, Flayn wants to give him a hug but has to remind herself it's impolite in public. And Felix-- _he looks handsome,_ Felix thinks. 

With that done, all Dimitri has to do is contend with the party itself, and the low drone of the voices at the party is already making his head pound. Khalid and Lorenz are holding court near the balcony, and Petra, as she desired, is deep in conversation with Ingrid and Ashe, but Edelgard and Byleth remain with him at the high table. 

He’s almost glad Edelgard is there, though while they’re friendly in letters, they really only manage awkwardly cordial in person. But she also finds these social events wearing, and she doesn’t try to touch him after their dance, and he doesn’t mind watching their more outgoing companions with her and Byleth from the high table. Once the guests have finished wishing Dimitri a happy birthday, it’s just the three of them, Byleth with a mug of honeyed mead and Edelgard with a goblet of wine. They both watch Dimitri for a long moment, gazes unnerving in two different ways, before Byleth finally says, “You look tired.” 

Dimitri is drinking watered cider and takes a sip. If it were just Byleth at the table, he might be more open, but Edelgard is watching him just as carefully, and even if they’re allies, and step-siblings, and almost friends, he has to be cautious. He watches her for a moment, weighing his options, and finally says, “My madness is--always present. Sometimes it feels closer to overtaking me than others.” 

To their credit, neither Byleth nor Edelgard look alarmed. Byleth nods--he’s said nothing new to them--and Edelgard leans back in her chair with her wine and says, “For someone who wants my head, you’re remarkably calm.” 

Dimitri chokes out a laugh. Edelgard smiles. He’s glad Byleth is the only person nearby; he doesn’t think his _or_ Edelgard’s friends would consider it a laughing matter, but the fact is Edelgard herself is the only person who could make such a joke. “No,” he says when he’s composed himself. “This is…something else.” Something new, he does not say. He doesn’t need to give her a reason to distrust him. Edelgard knows about many of the things he does to maintain his current state of health, and believes him capable regardless. But new madness is different from the familiar. 

“Trouble sleeping?” Edelgard says. 

Always, but that’s not what wore him down today. He felt like he slept well last night; Jacqueline even commented on it--or did he just imagine she did? He can’t remember if she said it or if it was the new madness. Either way: does he truly look that much more tired than usual? Maybe it’s existential exhaustion. “It will pass.” He hopes. If it doesn’t, he will have to talk to someone--Dedue, Mercedes, Flayn, or Byleth. And then once he’s begun to work on managing it, he’ll tell Felix, and Ashe and Ingrid. He wishes he could tell Felix first, or at least sooner. He works most closely with him, and it’s still--even after all these years of distance between them--his first instinct, but he knows Felix, knows their relationship, and knows Felix will have no patience for him until he’s already taking care of himself. 

He sighs. The room, heated by more braziers and the blazing fire in the enormous keep fireplace, feels hot and tight, the sound of people talking growing louder. Annette and Lysithea are growing louder and more enthusiastic in their conversation near the high table, the sound starting to grate. Felix is out on the balcony, chatting with Bernadetta--he can see them through the open doors. There are braziers out there to keep it warm, and Felix hates these events almost as much as Dimitri, but has the luxury of not hiding it. He hears Lorenz laugh and flinches. “I think I’ll go get some fresh air,” Dimitri says. “Please, entertain yourselves.” 

“It’s your party,” Byleth says, shrugging. Edelgard toasts him as he sweeps up his cider and makes his way to the balcony. 

Dimitri’s waylaid on his way across the room by several people. By the time he makes it out to the balcony, Bernadetta has vanished in that way she has of hers, and Felix is alone, leaning back against the balustrade, facing towards the ballroom, arms crossed. When Dimitri pauses at the doorway, Felix lifts an eyebrow at him, and then jerks his head, beckoning Dimitri. 

Dimitri puts his elbows on the railing, facing out to the barren castle gardens, next to Felix. Their shoulders touch, and it’s only then that Dimitri realizes he’s miscalculated, because he can hear Felix again: _He looks tired. I suppose it was a long day for him. I--_ the voice cuts off, like Felix doesn't dare think something, let alone say it.

“Enjoying yourself?” Felix says finally. 

“As much as can be expected,” Dimitri answers. “You know I--don’t love these events.” Felix snorts. _You’re a terrible liar, Mitya. We all know you hate them._ “But it is good to see everyone.”

Felix hasn’t called him Mitya aloud since childhood, when almost everyone did. More proof this is merely Dimitri’s mind playing tricks on him, manifesting long-held desires, like being close to Felix again.

Felix’s mouth quirks. “Yes,” he agrees. _I’m capable of talking to him. I do it all the time. Why is it so hard to just_ talk _to him?_ “I haven’t seen Bernadetta or Dorothea since Edelgard’s party in Enbarr.” _It’s a shame Leonie couldn’t make it. I would have liked to see her, but she’s--where is she, again?_

She’s in Albinea, Dimitri almost says. He only knows because Khalid told him while they were dancing. He manages to catch himself just in time. Dimitri’s going mad, not reading Felix’s thoughts. He doesn’t know if Felix is thinking about Leonie in Albinea or not. He’s imagining it. 

“This is a better party than Edelgard’s, though,” Felix says. _Less ostentatious._ “It’s good you opened the balcony.” 

“It was Jacqueline’s idea,” Dimitri says. “You know I let her handle it.” The braziers work well, and most of the guests are dressed in wool and furs as is to stave off the chill. It’s a clear, cold night with little wind, the stars visible, the moon nearly full. With the snow reflecting the moonlight and the braziers, the balcony’s almost well lit. 

“Smart of you,” Felix says. “You’d have mucked it up.” _That was probably unkind. Can’t go a fucking conversation without insulting him._

“It’s true,” Dimitri says, smiling. “I’m not good at this sort of thing. A leader has to learn to delegate.” 

Felix turns his head a little to look at Dimitri, the angle just awkward enough from their positions that it has to be deliberate. “You have gotten better at it.” _To be honest, I’m proud of how far he’s come._

Dimitri almost drops his mug off the balcony. Of course he wants Felix to be proud of him. It feels cruel for his maddened mind to throw it in his face. 

_He looks good. I like it when he pulls his hair back. He’s been running his hands through it, though. His braid needs fixing. Or--messing up more. I want to--_ Felix takes a long swig of his mulled wine. _That mole on the back of his neck...fuck._

What? 

The low-grade panic that’s been simmering at the bases of his neck and spine stutters into stillness. A mole? On the back of his neck?

He reaches up, ostensibly to tuck a loose strand into his braid, and runs his fingers across the skin. It feels the way it always does. 

The last time Dimitri lost his mind, he really didn't fully notice it happening. Sometimes, yes, but often he was unconcerned with what had felt, at the time, wholly explainable.

Being acutely aware of this new madness is strange and frightening and _strange_. Wanting Felix to love him, that isn’t so weird. Dimitri isn’t sure he’s capable of love but he wants Felix to care for him as a friend, a confidante, again, though it’s been many years since he has. But inventing a mole on his neck? That’s only absurdity. There’s nothing behind it as far as he can see. 

Or it means it’s--

Felix is still looking at him, and Dimitri doesn’t turn his head so he can continue without making eye contact. Felix’s arm is warm where it touches Dimitri’s elbow. _I want to kiss it. Kiss him. I want to--_ Felix looks away from him, back at the crowd. _I should go...find Lysithea and Annette, or something. I--_

“I’m going to go get some more wine,” Felix says. _Should I ask if he’ll be...? This is so stupid._ He pushes away from the balustrade and Dimitri. “You’re...going to be okay out here, right?” he asks gruffly. 

Dimitri smiles, hoping Felix doesn’t notice the tightness. “Go ahead,” he says. “I don’t want to keep you.”

Feix nods, posture stiff, and leaves, and Dimitri slumps.

The rest of it, Dimitri can justify. He wants his staff to trust him. He wants his friends to care about him. Of course he wants to be close to Felix again. All of this could be projections. But Dimitri can’t justify why a mole on the back of his neck would be a part of any of this. 

Dedue joins him immediately, almost certainly because he was keeping an eye on

him, well aware of how difficult these events are for Dimitri. Usually it’s Ashe, sometimes Ingrid, who watches out for him, but when Dedue is in Fhirdiad he always insists. 

Dimitri used to insist he didn’t need looking after, but he appreciates the company now, especially when he’s a little distressed, and his friends understand that sometimes he just needs to be alone. So instead of complaining, just enjoys Dedue’s presence, trying to forget that it’s fleeting and that Dimitri is going to worry everyone all over again when he confesses he thinks he can hear their thoughts. 

“Dedue,” he says, after they spend a few moments in comfortable silence, “Do I have a mole on the back of my neck?” 

Dedue blinks, but doesn’t otherwise react to the odd question. “Oh? Yes,” Dedue’s careful as he reaches out and sweeps of loose strands of Dimitri’s hair back with his fingers and pokes, lightly, at a spot behind his ear, just below his hairline. _I wonder who pointed it out to him_ , he thinks as he touches Dimitri. _His hair is a mess_. “It’s not large or odd, but it is noticeable when your hair is pulled back, and when you kept it short.” 

Dimitri’s stomach drops. He takes off a glove and reaches up to touch where Dedue poked him. The mole isn’t raised on his skin; he can’t feel it. He might be able to see it if he twisted in the mirror, but he never does. He had no idea it was there until he...he heard Felix _think_ it. Balwin said nothing aloud about sending flowers to Mathilde in the scullery, but Felix said the scullery staff was aflutter because someone had received flowers. Ferdinand worried Edelgard had tried to negotiate something he’d have to smooth out later, and Edelgard _had_ been dropping hints about increasing whale oil shipments to the south while they danced. 

The thoughts are _real._ He’s not going mad in some new, horrible way. 

The relief hits him so strongly he slumps against the balustrade, sucking in a deep breath for what feels like the first time since he woke up. He breathes deep for a few moments, trying to drain the residual tension and fear from his body, before he stands straight up again.

If the thoughts are real, then Felix is _really_ in love with him. 

“Dimitri?” Dedue says. He sets a hand on his shoulder. _It’s been a long day. Perhaps he should call it a night. He looks exhausted, and someone needs to fix his hair._

“I’m fine, Dedue,” Dimitri says, and smiles at him. “I’m only a little tired.”

Dedue blinks. “Was I that obvious?” _I’m worrying too much again, aren’t I?_

“I appreciate that you still worry about me,” Dimitri says, testing the waters, trying to confirm what he’s hearing without giving away how he can hear it. “But I’m all right. Just taking a break for a moment.” Goddess, does _everyone_ think he looks tired? And is his braid that much of a mess? “Do I look that tired?” he says. 

“A little bit,” Dedue admits. 

Dimitri deflates. “I’m truly all right,” he says. Well, he’s not going mad again, but he has a new set of very different problems, and he doesn’t think Mercedes can make a tincture that would help. 

Oh--oh, no. 

Two nights ago, with most of the former Blue Lions arrived in town for Dimitri’s birthday feast and Dedue and Flayn on their way, Dimitri hosted a private dinner for the seven of them, and then they retired to his personal parlor for mulled wine and conversation. 

Alcohol doesn’t settle well with the tincture Dimitri takes in the evenings, so he stuck to tea. Even sober, however, the conversation trailed and meandered and he only just remembers: 

“You know what they say about thirty-year-olds,” Sylvain had said, nudging Dimitri’s shoulder.

“I don’t, actually,” Dimitri said.

“That if you’re still a virgin when you’re thirty, you’ll turn into a wizard.”

Dimitri felt face get hot, and took a huge sip of tea. 

“Sylvain!” Ingrid snapped.

“What!”

“Well, for starters, it doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?” Mercedes said, putting her finger to her chin as she interrupted Ingrid’s oncoming tirade at Sylvain’s impropriety. “I mean, most people can do some level of magic if they’re properly trained and know the spells. So what constitutes ‘becoming a wizard?’”

She winked at Dimitri. Dimitri lifted his teacup to her in thanks. 

“Maybe it’s a good thing!” Annette said. “After all, Your Majesty, I know you can’t do much more than heal paper cuts. Maybe it just means your natural aptitude increases!” 

“Wizards are usually illusory magicians, though,” Ashe said. “Street magic and such. I mean, it’s kind of a specific term, isn’t it?” 

“For Goddess’ sake,” Felix muttered. “It’s a legend, not reality.” 

“No discussion on if His Majesty is actually a virgin or not?” Sylvain said. “You’re all disappointing.”

Dimitri put his face in his hands to hide his blush. Thirty years old and he still turned red like a teenager at the thought of having sex. “I hardly think the conversation is necessary,” he said. 

It wasn’t just a plea for his privacy, though even Sylvain would back down. But he knows everyone in the room well, has known them for a decade or much longer, and surely they all had at least an inkling that he’d never had sex. He wasn’t exactly known for dallying. 

Sylvain pouted, but shrugged. “Anyway, legend it may be, but many legends have basis in fact, don’t they? Do you know any thirty-year-old virgins to ask?” He leans forward to look at Felix. “Are _you_ a thirty-year-old virgin?”

Felix scowled, ignoring Sylvain’s last jab. “I’m not thirty for two months, you idiot. And why would I ask someone if they’re a virgin? I’m not rude.”

Ingrid snorted mead out her nose. Ashe had a sudden, timely coughing fit. Mercedes laughed outright, though gently enough that not even Felix could get mad at her.

One of the knights knocked perfunctorily on the door before opening it. “Ambassador Molinaro has arrived,” he said, and let in Dedue.

“Dedue!” Dimitri said, hopping up to hug him tightly. They exchange letters, both personal and professional, often, but it’d been since Dimitri’s most recent diplomatic trip to Duscur that they’d seen each other, nearly four months. 

“Dimitri,” Dedue said, and even now Dimitri thrilled at Dedue saying his given name. “It’s good to see you.” He bestowed a small smile on the rest of the room. Ashe hopped up to hug him next, Annette and Mercedes right after him. Dedue insisted on hugging Sylvain, who returned the hug and complained about it the whole time; exchanged a firm forearm grasp with Ingrid; even he and Felix nodded at each other.

“Flayn traveled on to Garreg Mach to see Seteth,” Dedue said. “She’ll travel back with the Archbishop for the party the day after tomorrow.”

“She’s always welcome to stay the night,” Dimitri said.

Dedue shook his head, smiling. “You know how she is--she wanted to get a few more hours in while the moon was up so she could arrive before lunch. Cea--”the leader of Dedue’s personal guard--”is with her, and she brought her crescent sickle.”

“The road to Garreg Mach is quite safe, is it not?” Dimitri said, alarmed. Demonic beasts and bandits were both common after the war, and the leaders of Fódlan put a lot of work into making travel safer. 

“I am not concerned,” Dedue reassured him, smile softening. “Still, I am confident in her ability to take care of herself.” 

“Aren’t you the romantic,” Sylvain teased. “Trusting your wife to kick an assailant’s ass without you.” 

“You act like you’re mocking me, but I know you find it sweet,” Dedue said, all solemn dignity, accepting Mercedes’ offer of a chair and steaming teacup. Sylvain made a face at him, and Dedue smiled serenely. 

“You missed the most inane conversation, Molinaro,” Felix said. “Be lucky you weren’t here a minute earlier than you were.”

“We were having an animated discussion about the nature of wizardry,” Mercedes elaborated. Felix sighed.

“ _Wizardry_?” Dedue said, raising an eyebrow. “Not sorcery? Aren’t wizards more smoke and mirrors?”

Ashe pointed at him. “That’s what _I_ said!”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Sylvain said. “Do you know any thirty-year-old virgins?” 

Dedue looked at Sylvain, looked at Dimitri, who was studiously avoiding eye contact; looked at Ingrid, who would be thirty in two weeks and was tipsy enough to wink at him; looked at Felix, thirty in two months, who affixed him with a glare; looked back at Sylvain, and opened his mouth. 

“We were talking about wizardry!” Annette said suddenly, also seeing the look in Dedue’s eye that suggested he was about to tease someone, likely Felix. She leaned forward. “But that’s not as interesting as you, though. I haven’t seen you in ages! Months and months and months! What are you up to?” 

Dedue blushed very sweetly at the attention, and the conversation moved on. Dimitri nearly forgot about it, just a few minutes amongst a pleasant several hours, except he’s thinking about it now. 

_Many legends have a basis in fact, don’t they?_ Sylvain said.

 _What constitutes ‘becoming a wizard?’_ Mercedes mused.

Is _this_ what the legend meant? Honestly, Dimitri half-wondered if it was a real legend at all, or Sylvain was just teasing him. But Felix seemed to have heard of it, too. It probably was real, then, some soldier’s tale Dimitri missed by having spent most of the war fighting alone. 

Maybe it was more accurate at one point. Maybe at some point “wayseer” turned into “wizard” in the way gossip spreads from the front of the army’s convoy to the back. 

_Surely_ Dimitri is not the only thirty-year-old virgin in recent history? There has to be someone else out there with this experience. 

But Felix is right, as well: who on earth would _ask_ such a thing? Not only _are you a virgin_ but also _now that you’re thirty, can you read other people’s thoughts?_ And coming from Dimitri, whose history is spotty at best, it would only sound like madness.

It _still_ sounds like madness. Dimitri is clearheaded enough to see that. He sounds...very mad. 

“Dimitri?” Dedue says. 

“I’m sorry, Dedue,” Dimitri says. “I seem to be lost in my thoughts.” 

“I noticed,” Dedue says dryly. “Shall I leave you in peace?”

“On the contrary, I had better make another showing,” Dimitri says. “Maybe it will keep me from being so pensive.” Maybe it will keep him from thinking about Felix, about Felix who is in love with him, Felix who wants to--

He shakes his head.

Dedue touches his shoulder again. _He seems distressed. Gods, what was Balwin_ doing _this morning with that braid? Maybe I can--don’t second-guess it, just ask._ “Dimitri,” Dedue says gently. “Is there anything you want or need to talk about?” And then, so quickly he doesn't even have time to think, “Please be honest with me, Dimitri.” Their foreheads nearly touch.

Dimitri can’t lie. Not to Dedue, who has bared his soul to him even before Dimitri could read his thoughts. “There is something on my mind,” he says. “But I’m--not ready to speak on it, yet.” Or ever. 

Dedue searches his face, eyes dark in the dim light of the balcony. His brain is half-focused on the apparent mess that is Dimitri’s hair and half scrolling through a litany of things that might be causing Dimitri’s mood, from worsening nightmares to concern about Sreng to the lingering expectation of his marriage, all of which are laughably benign compared to the truth. He nods. “Okay,” he says. “Ready to go back inside?” He offers Dimitri his arm, and then pulls away. “Wait. I am sorry, but you are a mess.” He gently turns Dimitri around. 

“That bad?” Dimitri says, as Dedue pulls the tie out of his braid and finger-combs the strands loose before quickly rebraiding it more firmly. 

“Yes,” Dedue says. _We get so little time together these days_. “It’s better now.” _I adore you_ , he thinks, suffused with fondness, and Dimitri is glad the dim light hides his blush. Of course he adores Dedue in return; Dedue, his family when there was no one else left, but they don’t always say it. It’s not something that needs to be said. To hear it fills him with warmth.

“Thank you, Dedue,” Dimitri says, and goes for it. “I’m glad to spend this time together, even when you’re cleaning up my mess.”

Dedue’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Me too,” he says. “Shall we? For real this time.” He offers Dimitri his arm again, and Dimitri takes it, steels himself, and heads back into the ballroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! chapter 3 will be next week--
> 
> [twitter @coaIsack](http://twitter.com/coaisack)  
> [carrd](http://nebulia.carrd.co)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe this is a bridge Dimitri burnt long before he knew he was burning it. Felix could love him, but still never want anything more; there’s so much that's bitter between them, a decade of anguish and anger and hurt. They’ve never fully recovered, and they’ve never forged something new, either.
> 
> Dimitri _wants_ to forge something new with Felix. Maybe that’s what love is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note to self: don't make promises for when i next post a chapter, but...there should be a new one coming soonish!
> 
> many thanks to katie for the read-through :) 
> 
> content warning for this chapter: this chapter references Cornelia & related crimes, but it’s not a focus of the chapter. More relatedly, it discusses a lack of romantic interest as well as sexual dysfunction & loss of sex drive as a result of mental illness, trauma, and medication. this is one experience of someone w mental illness and in no way is it a universal one.
> 
> this is not an especially horny fic and by no means is it an explicit one, but there is some horny content forthcoming

There’s only one person Dimitri knows who’s weird enough to even potentially believe him. Fortunately, he has tea with Hapi twice a week without fail. 

There are some things that bring people together, and one of those things is being tortured by the same sadistic mage until you’re not the same person you were before, and another one of those things is killing that same mage together. Dimitri and Hapi are a bit of an odd pairing, but they’ve been close since the war in a way neither of them can be with anyone else. 

It’s not as though they talk about Cornelia. Hapi shows him her favorite rocks she’s found, and they talk about the weather, the stars, their friends, and, despite Hapi’s best attempts, politics. Hapi’s interest in politics extends primarily to the work she does as a courier for Yuri and no further, but she indulges Dimitri on occasion. 

Two days after Dimitri’s birthday, they have afternoon tea in the small walled courtyard near Dimitri’s rooms, taking Dagda fruit tea in the traditional way of Dagdan travelers and nomads that Shamir showed them during the war, with wooden saucers and sturdy ceramic teacups that Dimitri almost feels like he doesn’t have to handle delicately. There’s a pale sun, and no wind in the courtyard, braziers to keep them warm, and it feels good to be in the daylight, even dim blue night daylight, when few of the Fhirdiad Keep’s windows have glass in them and most of the winter is spent with shutters closed against the wind and cold. 

The last two days have been a whirlwind of touch and deafening thoughts and overstimulation. He’s had a headache the likes of which he hasn’t had since the Academy, pounding in his temples and where his spine meets his skull. 

Of course people _thought_ , Dimitri knew that. He knew, intellectually, that everyone had their own internal world. But knowing that and experiencing those internal worlds every time he brushed shoulders with someone or gripped a forearm or passed paperwork--he felt like an exposed nerve. Everyone had their own stresses and fears, their own joys and sorrows--Petra was still smug about being the one to bring down the boar on Dimitri’s birthday; Ashe was splitting his focus between a book he was reading, his little sister’s difficult pregnancy, and the new training the bowmen in the Guard; Yuri’s mind was a million places at once, sorting out plans and schemes and information that would have made most people’s heads spin; and Felix was. 

Felix. 

Felix was in love with Dimitri. Elbowed him before sparring and thought about his smile. Adjusted his scarf (“how are you _always_ this sloppy”) and imagined kissing Dimitri silent. Handed him a teacup and wanted to keep his hands wrapped around Dimitri’s for longer than the moment it took to transfer the cup from one set of hands to the other. Helped Dimitri with his surcoat laces at the sauna after training and thought about helping him with them every day for the rest of his life and not just when Dimitri’s hands failed him. 

All of it was like being trapped in an undertow, leaving him drowning and unable to swim to shore. He focused on his visitors, distracted himself with hosting a state visit, and was all too aware of how everyone he managed to touch thought he looked pale and exhausted. Still, if he was too busy to think at all, then he was too busy to think about hearing everyone else’s thoughts. They were just a problem in his way, and he could push himself through to the other side, with violence if necessary, until he bid Petra and Khalid goodbye, and most official proceedings of the state visit were over. 

Now, though, it looms. Dimitri can’t keep pushing through; he knows most of his limits, or more of them than he used to. He can’t keep going like this. Not when every touch reveals a secret that’s not his to share, not when every touch reminds him of hearing different, more threatening voices. This isn’t sustainable. 

Hapi is cheerful: chattering about Constance’s visit, irritated Balthus and Linhardt are both too far-flung--Balthus is Goddess knows where in Almyra (not even Khalid was sure), and Linhardt is with Caspar in Morfis--to come as well. Dimitri almost doesn’t want to bother her with this, but...Hapi’s his friend. He stood with her in the woods while she practiced sighing, and killed anything she summoned by accident. They shared familiar nightmares. They spent sleepless nights watching the stars at the top of the tower of the Keep Cornelia had claimed as hers, taking it back until there were new memories to turn to that didn’t hurt. Sometimes Dimitri can’t believe someone as interesting as Hapi is friends with him, but he has to trust her judgement. He doesn't have to do everything alone. 

“Hapi,” he says, interrupting her, and rests one gloved hand on top of hers on the table. 

Hapi’s eyes go wide. _Oh no, is Didi_ proposing--

“I am _not_ proposing to you!” he says quickly. “I’m trying to-- _please_ don’t tell me the Star Chamber has gotten to you, too--”

“Just the gossip,” Hapi says, and then blinks at him. _How did he know I thought that?_

“Um,” Dimitri says, backtracking. “Hapi. Would you mind thinking something really weird? Something you’d never think, or really off-topic, or--”

“Okayyy,” Hapi says, giving him a skeptical look. _I liked Cornelia._

“I’m sorry, I can’t say that, even to tell you what you’re thinking.” 

“Fine.” Hapi closes her eyes. _Once upon a time, there was a man from Morfis who could make tea from the parts of wild beasts--wait._ “Didi,” Hapi says. “Did you hear me think about Cornelia?”

Dimitri nods, pulling his hand away from Hapi’s. “And then you started to tell a story about a man from Morfis who made tea out of demonic beasts.”

“ _Wild_ beasts. They don't have demonic beasts in Morfis.”

“I’m sorry, that’s my mistake,” Dimitri says, and Hapi stares at him, eyes narrowed. _Can you hear me thinking?_

Dimitri nods. Hapi’s eyes go wide. “It seems that,” he says, pulling his hand back, “Since my birthday, I can hear people’s thoughts when I touch them.”

Hapi cups her chin in her hands. “Oh, _wow_ , Didi,” she says. “That’s kind of neat.” She looks at Dimitri’s face. “You don’t think it’s neat?” 

“I dislike...hearing things,” Dimitri says. 

Hapi considers this. “Okay,” she says. “For you, that makes sense.” Dimitri shifts in his seat, wondering if he should tell her his suspicions about Sylvain’s legend.

“Wait!” Hapi says. “Is this maybe related to that soldiers’ tale?”

“What soldiers’ tale?” Dimitri asks. 

“Oh, they used to mention it in Abyss a lot,” Hapi says. That if you survived to thirty and were still a virgin, you become a wayseer.”

“Sylvain said a wizard.” 

“That’s because nobles are weird,” Hapi says, which is a fair statement to make. Dimitri’d already wondered if “wayseer” was a more appropriate term anyway. She tucks her hands under her chin. “Bummer for you. _I_ would really enjoy it. Guess I should have waited.”

“You heard about it in Abyss, though? Did you--”

“In Abyss, no one really knew anybody who both survived to thirty _and_ was still a virgin,” Hapi says. “It was sort of mythical. But Abyss was kind of a fucked up place, and it has to be more common elsewhere. I know it’s not universal, but don’t some members of the Church take chastity vows?” Even now, her nose wrinkles at the word _Church._

“Well,” Dimitri says, “It’s possible there are other thirty-year-old virgins out there, but how would I bring that up?”

“Hmm,” Hapi says. “Do _we_ know any other thirty-year-old virgins?” She cocks her head. “All the Wolves are out, Dedue’s married, Marianne and Ignatz have that thing, the Varley girl would run away before you got to asking, Seteth--”

“Flayn’s his daughter, not his sister, if you recall. And either way, I’m not writing him to ask.” 

Hapi scrutinizes him. “You don’t know how old he was when he had Flayn, though. He could have been older than thirty.” Dimitri gives her a flat look. She shrugs. “Coward,” she says. 

Dimitri’s hackles rise, but he still shudders at the very idea of writing to Seteth to ask about his virginity.

“Oh! What about Eddy?” Hapi says. “She’s unmarried too, not that that means anything, but if she fucks around she’s discreet. There’s hardly any gossip. She’s still in town, right?” 

Dimitri blanches. Edelgard _is_ still in town--all the heads of state have met the last few mornings to assess the process of the ongoing reparations and reconciliation proceedings, and then he meets with her and Dedue tomorrow to discuss winter grain shipments before she goes back to Enbarr. “I don't think I can ask her,” he says. Maybe in a letter--but no, not even then. They’re friendly, and she’s part of his family, but they aren’t close enough for that. There will always be something between them--a dagger’s length of space, and they’ve both accepted that. 

Hapi shrugs. “Your loss.” She leans in. “Anyway, if it _is_ related to not having slept with anyone before, there’s an easy solution: have sex.” 

Dimitri flashes back to Felix at the ball, thinking about kissing him, about messing up his hair. Does Felix want, would he want to--no. He can’t think about that right now. Can’t think about what Felix wants, when it’s not what Dimitri’s thought all along. “With _who_?” 

Hapi purses her lips, thinking. “Sylvain? I bet he’d do it.” 

Dimitri blanches again. Sylvain _would_ do it, is the problem, and he would even be kind about it, and it would be mortifying. And anyway. 

Up until this debacle, Dimitri had never particularly worried about his virginity. For a long time, even after the war, sex and romance were things he thought he’d lost to the fires of Duscur. He’d had a childish crush on Byleth before things began to crumble at the Academy, but in hindsight it was probably because Byleth was didn’t want to be called a woman or a man, and he’d never met someone else who had felt that way too. Romance wasn’t something he was sure he could ever truly get back, if he ever had it in the first place. 

As far as sex went, it wasn’t until he was twenty-six and suddenly found himself getting off every other night before bed that he realized it was still possible, and even then, it wasn’t high on his priority list when everything else was happening all at once. Neither he nor Edelgard had plans to pass on their positions to any potential progeny, deciding they would seek alternate options for the continent, so he barely even thought about producing an heir. Having sex with another person was usually so far down his priority list that it was nonexistent. 

There was something pleasing about the concept of being so close to someone, so intimate with them, of the physical contact, but Dimitri was so busy. He wasn’t even sure how well he could perform with someone else; sometimes, especially when he wasn’t doing well, he couldn’t manage to finish alone, or even want to try. 

Not to mention he’s _heard_ Sylvain’s thoughts now, and he knows Sylvain well, and while Sylvain’s doing much better than he was when he fucked anything with a pulse during the Academy, especially after they killed Miklan, Dimitri knows all too well that the reasons why he fucked his way through Garreg Mach’s monastery town haven’t gone away. He doesn’t know if he wants to be intimate with Sylvain when Sylvain has his own struggles, and they’d all be projected to Dimitri the whole time. Forcing Sylvain to be that vulnerable with him seems exploitative and possibly even cruel. He doesn’t want Sylvain to feel _obligated_ , because Dimitri’s his friend or his ruler or both.

“Come back down, Didi,” Hapi says, waving her hand in front of his face. “You’re lost in space.”

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri says.

“Okay, Sylvain’s out,” Hapi says. “That much thinking with that look on your face wasn’t good. What about one of the brothels? Several in the new theatre district are very discreet, but don’t tell Yuribird I said that.” 

“If Yuri’s got them in his pocket, they’re not discreet enough for this,” Dimitri says. 

“Then you’re shit out of luck. Yuribird has _everyone_.”

“He’s very good at his job,” Dimitri says. “It wouldn’t matter anyway, though. I--” he blushes. Hapi knows him weirdly and well, but saying it is a different story. “Practically, I don’t have any confidence in my ability to--” he can’t say it. He manages alone all right, most nights, but doesn’t know how he’d do with a partner. He makes a rude gesture to get his point across instead. 

“There are spells for that,” Hapi says. “Though you’d have to see if they countered what you usually take...and you’d have to talk to Mercedes for that. Saints, you can’t do _anything_ in secret, can you?” 

“Usually, it’s probably a good thing,” Dimitri mutters. It helps control both impulsions and compulsions. “But yes, at this point in time there are a number of barriers to discretion. And personally, I don’t know if I _want_ to--” He sighs. “Well, at this point in time it may be more feasible to limit my physical contact with others.”

Hapi looks sad. “Didi,” she says. Under the table, their boots touch. _People are good for you. You like people. They keep you healthy._

Dimitri’s eye flicks up to her face. “I do,” he says. “But I’m not talking about being alone. Just...physically distancing myself.”

Hapi’s face doesn’t change. “I’m going to sigh,” she announces, and does, with a great heave of her shoulders. A bird screeches as it wings by the window. “Didi, be careful,” she says. “Please don’t do something that would hurt you.”

“I’ll be careful,” Dimitri promises, and can only hope he’s telling the truth.

\--

It’s mostly easy to adjust his daily routine to suit his new needs. It only takes a slight shift in his posture to make him seem less physically approachable, and most people keep their distance. Jacqueline no longer lays a hand on his shoulder; lords don’t offer their forearms in greeting. Balwin is unavoidable, though Dimitri finds himself selecting gloves he can put on himself, rather than those with buttons. Secretly, though, he doesn’t mind Balwin so much: he’s become invested in his courting of Mathilde in the scullery staff, which is going achingly slowly. Dimitri can’t speak of it to anyone, but despite the intrusiveness, he can’t help but look forward to Balwin’s daily updates. 

His friends, though, are a different story. They aren’t so easily swayed by a change of posture, not when they saw what he was during the war. He can’t find ways to refuse them without arousing suspicion, though he’s already aroused some. 

Dimitri never felt like he touched many people. It wasn’t something allowed himself, not when his role as a royal put him in a position of power over others; not when he wasn’t always sure he deserved the comfort. He still wears gloves regularly (and wasn’t that strange, that Balwin never thought about his scarred, knotted hands, twisted almost beyond recognition as human?). He preferred to cover himself from neck to foot, but the power didn’t need skin-to-skin contact. 

He hadn’t realized how often he brushed shoulders with Sylvain: _That new barkeep at the pub is cute. I need to brush up on my western Srengi before the summit this spring. I wonder if we’ll get much more snow_. Felt Yuri’s chest against his arm when Yuri leaned over him to point something out on his desk: _Dimitri is distracted these days but no one seems to know why. Those rogues in Hrym are acting up again--should I tell Edelgard or handle it myself? I wonder if Byleth has received my letter yet_. Brushed fingers with Mercedes when she handed him a teacup: _Where did I leave my sewing bag? Oh, I oversteeped this. How is that stable boy’s cough?_ Hugged Annette: _Does Lysithea have those papers from Shambhala about post-Agarthan restoration of ancient sigils? I think His Majesty hugs better than Sylvain does. Those cakes I made yesterday were quite good, actually!_ Touched Felix. 

Felix was deliberate about touch; his spatial awareness and prickliness meant that when he touched someone he either meant to or he was cornered. So when he touched Dimitri--gripped his arm or smacked his hand away from his pen or kept him from drinking his inkwell instead of his tea or stepped on his foot or bumped shoulders with him--he meant to. And he did it, Dimitri realized now, all the time. Intentionally. Deliberately. Made up excuses in his head to touch Dimitri because he _wanted_ to. 

_There,_ Felix thinks when he tugs Dimitri by the wrist from the Star Chamber to his office. _He’s warm. You touched him. Satisfied?_

Or: 

“Have seconds for once,” he snaps at dinner, leaning over Dimitri to pile another quail drumstick and more lefse in front of him. But he thinks, _He smells good. Why does he smell so good? Fuck, I could put my face right there in his neck and just--_ “The chef worries you hate him and the gossip is terrible.”

Or: 

Dimitri, on a bench in the training yard, focused on oiling Areadbhar until Felix’s bloodwarm hand appears in his vision and shoves his hair out of his face. _Just sweat, but not greasy. Good, he’s still bathing regularly. Seiros, do you have any clue what you look like, Mitya?_ “Pull your hair back, it’s in your damn face and it annoys me just _watching_ you,” he grumbles before he turns on his heel and stalks away and Dimitri blinks after him. 

(Which, anyway: Dimitri has been shoving his bangs and cowlicks out of his face for nearly thirty years, and Felix has been there for most of them; he should know it’s a fairly useless exercise. And no, he has no clue what he looks like, other than a sweaty, post-sparring mess.)

It’s whiplash. Felix worries about him. Wants to touch him. Wants to be near him. Or his thoughts do. But what he said was the same it’d been since the war: not cruel, but acerbic in the way he was with everyone, except--except the rest of their friends, mostly. He lets Sylvain closer than anyone, and he smiles at Annette, and holds still when Mercedes fusses over him, and argues good-naturedly about books with Ashe. He and Dedue don’t like each other overmuch, and never have (and Dimitri’s smart enough to know that’s on Felix himself) but even they have a rapport that was half professional decorum as a Faerghan Duke and the Duscuri Ambassador, and half exasperated hand-wringing over Dimitri, as far as he could tell. 

When Felix argues with Dimitri, it’s not good-natured. Felix rarely smiles at him. Neither of them were clingy like Sylvain, and Dimitri imagines trying to fuss over Felix, and then imagines his inevitable death. He and Felix have been like this since the war, and at least Felix wanted to be close to him because he wanted to make sure Dimitri was sane, because he was expected to as Dimitri’s shield. Maybe because they were friends, or once-friends, but there was always a distance Dimitri hadn’t known how to cross. They were never going back to who they had been when they were children, and Dimitri didn’t know how to forge a new friendship with Felix, though he desperately wanted to. He didn’t know how to reach a Felix he had pushed away so thoroughly for nearly a decade. 

Felix _acted_ the same, unaware of Dimitri’s new power, but now Dimitri knew what he was thinking and it wasn’t...it wasn’t what Dimitri thought it was at all. He hadn’t considered that Felix held him at a distance despite wanting to pull him close. That Felix held him at a distance _because_ he wanted to pull him close. 

Dimitri wants to pull Felix close, too. Wants to tell Felix about this strange power, about how much he hates it. Wants to give Felix comfort and receive it in return. He doesn’t know if that’s love or just selfishness. Doesn’t know if he knows how to love at all, not the way Felix loves him. He doesn’t even know if that matters. Felix is special to him in a way no one else is; maybe that’s enough.

And yet--

Felix hasn’t changed. Felix acts exactly as he always has. It’s Dimitri who’s received the new perspective, and it’s an intrusive one. Felix never touches Dimitri and thinks _Someday I’ll tell him_ ; Felix never even touches Dimitri and thinks _He’ll never love me back._ Felix’s one-sided love is a status quo for Felix, one that is old and one he doesn’t anticipate changing.

Maybe this is a bridge Dimitri burnt long before he knew he was burning it. Felix could love him, but still never want anything more; there’s so much that's bitter between them, a decade of anguish and anger and hurt. They’ve never fully recovered, and they’ve never forged something new, either. 

Dimitri _wants_ to forge something new with Felix. Maybe that’s what love is. 

\--

The winter days slip past in a haze of blue night. Dimitri adjusts, both to the changes he makes to prevent people from touching him and the constant way he intrudes upon his friends’ privacy without meaning or wanting to. As he promised Hapi, he _is_ careful: he keeps their teatimes, takes time for evenings with Mercedes and Annette spent embroidering, enjoys noontime twilit rides with Sylvain since he’s in town, writes Dedue. Keeps his physical distance but cultivates the emotional bonds he’s spent years propagating. On Ingrid’s birthday there’s an hour of true light, the sun finally peeking over the horizon, and after that, Sylvain heads back to Gautier. 

Three days later, Dimitri’s absently putting porridge in his mouth one spoonful at a time while reading the update on the state of the mountain passes in that Sylvain forwarded upon his arrival in Gautier, and Felix throws open his door. 

“Boar. Get up. We’re sparring.”

“Are we?” Dimitri says, unable to hide his smile. He sets the official correspondence from Gautier on top of the personal letter Sylvain sent him, and stands up. “Good morning to you, too, Felix.” 

“ _Yes_ ,” snaps Felix. “Hurry up.”

Dimitri had planned on making it to the training yard this morning, so all he has to do is finish lacing his boots. Usually he’d hurry, fingers aching, but today he lets himself be careful as he laces up his boots and wraps the ties around his calves, mostly to try Felix’s patience. Felix paces the whole time, enraged, but Dimitri doesn’t bring it up until they’re on their way. “Why are you so worked up this morning?” He’s prepared to brush his glove against Felix’s arm in case Felix isn’t forthcoming.

“ _Sylvain_ ,” Felix snarls, and does not elaborate. 

“Ah.” On second thought, maybe Dimitri doesn’t need to know. Dimitri’s letter hadn’t been especially incendiary, just an average level of Sylvain’s teasing, but of course Felix’s could be an entirely different story. Sylvain and Felix have always been weird about each other. 

“He’s so…!” Felix makes an incoherent sound of rage and points at Dimitri. “I’m going to beat you to a pulp.” 

These days, Dimitri’s bloodlust is tempered by Felix’s own strength, by the knowledge that they can match each other in the training yard blow for blow. He grins at Felix, baring his teeth. “I’d like to see you try,” he says as one of the guards swings the door to the training yard open. 

The royal guard is finishing up personal exercises, but the second Felix grabs a live weapon, they clear the yard in anticipation. Dimitri examines the spare lances--Areadbhar is for battle, not sparring--until he finds a sturdy, heavy glaive, also live, that sits comfortably in his hands. 

Ashe sidles up to Dimitri. “Should I start a betting pool this morning?”

“Are you asking me to throw the match?” Dimitri says.

“Just trying to get privileged information,” Ashe says.

“I can pay you better if you need money,” Dimitri starts, and Ashe laughs at him. 

“First of all, Your Majesty, you really can’t, and secondly, it’s the royal guard. We’re all gamblers by nature.” Dimitri would object, but it’s fundamentally true: Ashe and Ingrid might be the two most cautious gamblers he knows, but they're both gamblers nonetheless. Ashe leans against the weapons stand. “Just by feel. Is it going to be a good one, or over quick?”

Felix is already warming up, still livid. Dimitri smiles down at Ashe. “I think it’ll be a good one.”

Live weapon spars between Dimitri and Felix go until someone yields. They used to go until first blood, but then Dimitri elbowed Felix in the face two minutes into a fight and gave him a bloody nose, and Felix was so enraged about the immediate loss they changed their standard agreement. 

Of all the things that happened to Dimitri during the war, learning how to fight dirty is perhaps the one he minds the least. He doesn’t have any shame when he kicks dirt into his opponent’s face or attacks them from behind or, well, elbows them in the nose. During the war, especially when he was a single combatant fighting groups, it was anything to survive. Now, especially when he’s sparring with someone who can keep up with him, like Felix, it’s anything to win. Felix fights dirty, too; he’s especially fond of jamming _his_ sharp elbows into peoples’ throats, even as he gets angry that Dimitri kneed him in the ribs on the last parry. 

Dimitri doesn’t trust himself to fight with live weapons when he’s angry the way Felix does, but Felix’s furious energy is contagious. Dimitri’s noticed that while he’s sparring he’s too busy thinking about the fight itself to notice his opponent’s thoughts when they happen to touch. When they match up, Felix glaring him down, Dimitri can’t help but bestow a sunny smile upon him, excited. 

Ingrid drops the flag and he kicks Felix in the stomach, knocking him back before he can move from the ready position. Felix responds with a feint of his blade that hides his actual attack: driving the blunt hilt of his sword into Dimitri’s ribs. 

It’s a good fight, not just a dirty one; Felix is a magnificent swordsman without throwing a single elbow, and Dimitri’s more than competent. He’s not as fast as he was during the war, as Felix still is, but he’s fast enough and has the strength and range advantages to make up for it. He can brush aside Felix’s most powerful swings with a parry of his lance just as Felix dodges his lunges and slashes with agraceful ease. The sounds of the wind howling around the castle walls and the cheers and heckles of the guard watching them fade away until the world narrows to just Felix and him, their feet scuffing in the dirt of the training yard as they move, the metallic clash of their weapons, their heavy breaths. 

Things only derail when he’s using the shaft of the lance to block a blow and Felix smirks at him.

Dimitri doesn’t have an explanation for why, at that moment, it affects him so. It’s not his power, because they aren’t touching; it’s not even the existence of his power, the knowledge of Felix’s secrets, because Felix smirked at him like he was about to win a fight two days ago and a week ago and--well. Often, every time he wins a fight. But whatever it is, whatever he sees in Felix’s eyes _this_ time as he blocks Felix’s blade with the shaft of his lance--

His crest flares: the lance bows and then snaps in his hands like he’s seventeen again. 

Felix uses his surprise to push him back. Dimitri loses his balance but, snarling, hooks an ankle around Felix’s to drag him down. Felix, of course, barely blinks, and Dimitri goes down onto his ass and elbows hard, broken pieces of the lance still in each hand, and Felix is grinning outright now as he lunges low into Dimitri, the battle his. 

Dimitri thinks fast: he uses the blade of the lance to block Felix’s sword coming for his throat, startling him enough he can disarm them both with a twist of his wrist, lance head and sword skittering across the training yard. He uses the shaft to get leverage on Felix and flip their positions, straddling him and pinning him with the shaft of the lance across his collarbones and shoulders, reaching down with his now-empty hand to snag Felix’s dagger from his belt and hold it to his throat. 

_Fuck,_ Felix thinks. He struggles for a moment, but knows when he’s been beaten. He turns his head and mutters “I yield,” and Dimitri sits up, throwing the lance shaft aside, unable to keep from grinning as the royal guard watching explodes into a cacophony of cheers and money exchanging hands. It was a good fight, broken lance notwithstanding, and for once he seeks out the power, pushing his giddiness aside to see if maybe he can catch a compliment from Felix that he’d never say aloud.

Instead of a thought, though, Felix is _imagining_ something. Imagining Dimitri, holding Felix up against a wall by the thighs, kissing him deep and wet and hungry. Felix’s hands are in Dimitri’s hair, messing it up as he makes low, furious noises in the back of his throat. He sinks a fist into Dimitri’s hair and pulls, and the Dimitri in his fantasy groans. 

Dimitri must inhale a puff of training ground dust, because he has to cough before he scrambles to his feet, and then, out of habit, offers Felix his hand. “You’re all right?” he says. 

Felix smacks his hand aside, getting up on his own, and Dimitri gets a vivid glimpse of a different fantasy: him and Felix in a bed, both of them shirtless, Dimitri’s scars on full display, and Felix is _smiling._

“I’m _fine_ ,” Felix snarls. He reaches out to grab his dagger from Dimitri’s limp hand, their fingers brushing again, and Felix is _still_ smiling, loose hair clinging to his face with sweat, hands running along the straps of Dimitri’s eyepatch. 

Felix’s cheeks are flushed from the cold and exertion. He sets his jaw. “Good fight,” he mutters, and turns around to begin stretching. 

Dimitri swallows, and turns to pick up the lance he snapped. He has to take it to the smith to see if they can reuse the steel at all. It’s good to have a task, a task without Felix, so he doesn’t reach out to touch him again. So he doesn’t see what the Felix in the fantasy would have done next. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next ch: “Your Grace!” a guard says. “Do you need...help...carrying His Majesty…” He trails off in the manner typical of someone on the receiving end of Felix’s glare. “I’ll take that as a no, Your Grace,” he says, bowing and hurrying away. 
> 
> [twitter @ coaIsack](http://twitter.com/coaisack)  
> [nebulia.carrd.co](http://nebulia.carrd.co)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on, get up. I’m not carrying you back to your rooms.” He hauls Dimitri up again, getting under his arm to support his weight.
> 
> Dimitri spits more mucus on the floor. “You can’t, anyway.”
> 
> Felix hisses at him, like an angry cat. “ _Try me_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks again to katie for the readthrough and both katie and seabee for holding my hand through this fic lol
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: bronchitis; brief references to psychosis and severe physical illness; a more extensive reference to a mental health episode that includes paranoia, psychosis, and suicidal ideation. Felix uses ableist language again.
> 
> (Felix started going grey at 27 and I'll die on this hill)

Dimitri hasn’t remembered a good dream since the Tragedy of Duscur. Dedue hadn’t either. They both sometimes felt they _had_ good dreams, like they woke with the scent of a sweet dream still in their nose, but neither of them remembered them. Dreamless sleep was an admirable goal in itself, they’d agreed, though not always an attainable one.

So if Dimitri dreams about Felix, he doesn't remember it. That doesn't stop him from lying in bed and thinking about him. Thinking about Felix kissing him, about Felix's hands on his face, his back, his waist. He tried very hard not to think about what it might mean to lose his new power, but now that he knows Felix thinks about it, he can't help but think of it too. 

He lies in bed and thinks about Felix wanting him. Usually, when he gets off on his own, he doesn’t think of anyone, or tries not to, because it feels invasive. But now he can’t stop thinking about Felix, about Felix wanting him, about Felix imagining them in bed together. About kissing Felix. 

Felix is handsome, and strong, and his acerbic nature hides someone who cares deeply, who has always cared, since they were children. Dimitri isn’t sure he _wants_ to care as much as he does, sometimes, but Dimitri understands that, even if he reacts to that desire differently than Felix does. Felix is lithe and sturdy, and his somber, handsome face with deep-set eyes is dear and familiar to Dimitri, and the fine silver streaks in his hair--the only sign he’s no longer twenty-three--catch in sunlight and lanterns. 

Felix had imagined them kissing: Felix had imagined Dimitri an active participant, kissing Felix with enthusiasm, holding him up to make up for the height difference; Felix had imagined sinking his hands into Dimitri’s hair and _pulling_ , and Dimitri was--

He reaches up, fisting one of his hands into his own hair, and pulls. 

Dimitri chokes on his own spit, coughing. When he’s recovered, he closes his eyes, and pulls his hair again. 

“Oh,” he whispers, and pulls again. Imagines Felix’s furious mouth on his, Felix crowded up against him, Felix’s lean thighs and narrow hips in his hands, his weight in Dimitri’s arms. Squeezes his eyes shut tightly and pulls his hair again.

\--

In hindsight, he should have noticed his annual cough coming in like a slow storm; the cold weather had made his throat more sensitive, and he was breathing more heavily after exercise. But it snuck up on him, distracted by his new power, by Felix, not to mention the normal things that kept him busy: the weather, a Morfin message Yuri had intercepted, trade negotiations with Dagda, a small rebellion against Duscur reparations by the former Kleiman house. 

He first got the cough the winter he spent in the Fhirdiad slums, though he doesn’t remember much of it. The war years are fuzzy, seasons blurring together, but the first autumn after the war he fell terribly ill and spent most of the winter either working on the Duscur sovereignty treaty from his bed, delirious with fever, or awake and coughing up blood. 

He’d been _so tired_ after the war, but there was still so much to do. When he got sick, he was forced to all but toss Sreng into Sylvain’s lap, the question of feeding wartorn Faerghus for the winter into Felix and Ashe’s, and the entirety of the Kingdom military and Knights into Ingrid’s. The official peace summit between the Empire, Faerghus, and the Alliance, including the formal divestment of the Church from governmental entities, was held in his bedroom, because he was too sick to leave it, though he overheard Hubert tell Lorenz it was his deathbed. He was almost right.

Since then, he’s gotten the cough every year, accompanied by varying degrees of illness. The last couple years it’s only been a couple weeks of a bad cold and a lingering cough, manageable by anyone’s standards. But it sneaks up on him this year. He misses all the signs of the oncoming cold until he’s in the thick of it. 

He screams himself awake from a nightmare well before dawn, breathless and freezing, having sweat through and then kicked off all his blankets and furs. He feels terrible, tired and over-alert all at once, and he knows immediately he won’t go back to sleep, not with his throat sharply raw and the whispers coming from the shadows of the corners of his room. If he listened closely he could understand what they were saying, but he’s cultivated a skill of Not Listening. Not quite managing to ignore them, but letting the words wash over him emptily like he does when Galatea starts going on about marriage prospects and Crest-bearing children again. 

So instead he dresses warmly--quilted chausses and a gambeson under a heavy cloak with fur-lined boots, heavy gloves, a scarf, and a hat--and takes a lantern out to the ramparts, the voices following him, but at a distance. Most are guarded, but those at the top of the high tower aren’t: the skywatch covers more distance, and the high tower holds the old royal apartments, still only half-restored from Cornelia’s reign.

Cornelia raised taxes to drain the coffers of the nobles and commoners alike, to keep them from having any money to do much more than survive. She didn’t use the surplus for infrastructure, instead spending it on her own comfort and lining the treasury, but war is expensive, and even Cornelia’s surplus was quickly lost to rebuilding and Duscur reparations. Outside of the high tower, most of the Keep was repaired quickly, and the space is more than adequate. They simply haven’t had the spare money or time yet to repair the damage from Dimitri and Hapi’s charge up to Cornelia on the high tower ramparts, let alone her...renovations, the expanded dungeon and the laboratory that Dimitri later trashed in a fit of fury. The spaces have been cleared, and the structure is sound, but it’s missing shutters and doors, empty and quiet but for the wind, and Dimitri climbs the stairs slowly to the top ramparts to watch the stars, cloak wrapped tightly around him. He should be sleeping, because his body complains with exhaustion on the steps, every inhale feeling shallow and thick, but there’s no way he’ll fall back asleep tonight. 

The wind is fierce up so high, but the ramparts are tall, and he leans back against one, pointing out the constellations Hapi taught him and taking deep, even breaths of frigid, bracing air, coughing when he sucks in too much at once. His throat is still tight. Eventually, trembling a little, he sits down, cloak wrapped around him, one knee drawn up, head tipped back. He can still see most of the sky from here. 

It’s good to be alone, to not worry about being touched and hearing someone’s private thoughts. Aside from when he sleeps, he’s rarely totally alone. He has his staff in and out of his rooms and office, daily meetings with Yuri as his spymaster and Ashe and Ingrid as the leaders of the Knights, he’s strict about scheduling time with his old friends, and he and Felix spend most of every day together working. He doesn’t mind time spent with Felix--the more time he spends with him, the more chances he gets to see a rare smile, hear him snort at one of Dimitri’s terrible Alois-approved jokes, watch him pause in his work or berating of Dimitri to pet one of the Keep’s mousers. But here Dimitri’s alone as he’ll ever be, and it’s a nice change of pace, especially now that he can hear people’s thoughts. 

He lets his vision go fuzzy, Not Listening to the whispers that followed him up the stairs, looking at the blurry points of the stars instead of seeing the hellscapes of his nightmares. He aches a little bit, but he always feels like he aches a little bit. The hazy stars fade as he watches, breathing heavy through his rough throat, and the sky lightens from black to blue to--

“--mitri. Dimitri. _Boar!”_

Dimitri blinks. It’s grey but light out and he’s very cold but not quite frostbitten, sitting against the ramparts in the abandoned high tower, and Felix has both his shoulders and is shaking him, and he feels...awful, actually. 

_Oh Goddess, please let him be all right,_ Felix thinks. _What the fuck was he thinking?_

“What time is it?” he says instead. “It was night.” He remembers the sky lightening, vaguely. “Coming up on dawn, maybe?”

“It’s almost _noon_. How long have you been here?” _He’s fucking freezing. His lips are blue, Serios’ tits._

Dimitri shrugs, or tries to, but he’d like to close his eyes. He lifts one shoulder. He’s a little nauseous. He coughs. 

Felix sighs. “Fucking…” _Shit. Fucking shit, he’s sick. Goddess, he has been coughing a little, hasn’t he. Shit. I should have been--fuck._

“I was looking at the stars,” Dimitri says.

“You were _killing yourself_ ,” Felix snaps, and Dimitri flinches.

“I _wasn’t--_!”

Felix pulls back, and rubs the bridge of his nose. _Fool. If you ever thought before you spoke--_ “No, I’m sorry, I--I didn’t mean to insinuate you were--” he gestures. “Just that you’re making yourself sick and _then you’ll fucking die.”_ He gets his shoulder under Dimitri’s and hauls him up. _He’s lighter than he should be. How do we make him eat more? I should just force feed him. It’s not like he ever really enjoys eating anyway._ “Come on, let’s get inside.” He helps Dimitri into the keep, the interior of the high tower already warmer without the wind. _Saints, but he’s cold._ “Stay here,” Felix says. “I’m going to yell down to the guards that I found you.” He disappears back outside, and Dimitri hears him shouting to the guards on the lower ramparts. Dimitri decides to tackle the stairs, but he’s dizzy, leaning against the wall as he makes his way down one step at a time. He sits down on the stairs at the next landing, and hears Felix stomp back inside. For someone who is not large, he can make a lot of noise. 

“Dimitri?” he says, before he sees Dimitri leaning against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. “For fuck’s sake,” he grumbles, and clomps down the stairs. “We’ve been looking for you all morning. No one expected you’d come up here.” 

“Why not,” Dimitri says, voice hoarse, and coughs wetly. He spits some mucus on the dirty stone floor, and Felix wrinkles his nose. 

“That's disgusting,” he says, and then leans over to examine it, steadying himself on Dimitri’s shoulder. _There’s no blood in it, is there? No. Good._ “No one figured you’d go to...her space. Since you’ve put off restoring it.”

“I’ve said,” Dimitri says, “there's no point in restoring this part of the Keep when money is stretched tight and there's other room.” He coughs again. He has been coughing more frequently in the last week or so, and in hindsight, sleeping more restlessly. He’s not always good at noticing these things until after the fact, but he really missed the warning signs this time. 

“Yeah, you've said that,” Felix says. “But it's not like you're in any hurry either.”

“I come up here a lot,” Dimitri says, which is true, though he can’t imagine moving back into the former royal apartments where he’d grown up, not now that Cornelia had slept in the room his parents were rarely allowed in together, since she had turned the nursery into a laboratory for her monstrous Crest experiments. “You didn't know?”

“it's not like Yuri tells me pointless things about your comings and goings,” Felix says. “When?” _We’re together nearly all the time, and he’s in bed or his office when we’re not._

“At night,” Dimitri says, “when I can't sleep. With Hapi, sometimes, if she’s the same. But usually I'm down before dawn. Even when it's cold.” He corrects himself. “Especially when it's cold.” He leans his head against the wall. “But maybe...I got complacent,” he mumbles.

“You think?” Felix says. “Come on, get up. I’m not carrying you back to your rooms.” He hauls Dimitri up again, getting under his arm to support his weight. 

Dimitri spits more mucus on the floor. “You can’t, anyway.”

Felix hisses at him, like an angry cat. “ _Try me_.” 

“‘S fine,” Dimitri says, but by the time they reach the bottom of the tower’s stairs, he’s gasping for breath, stopping to cough every four steps.

“Fucksake,” Felix says. “Can you hold on?”

“To what?” 

“To _me_ , fool.” Felix lets out a noisy sigh and shifts a little, so he’s in front of Dimitri. “Arms round my neck. Come on.” _Just_ do _it, boar. Listen to me for once._

It isn’t until Felix bends over and hoists Dimitri onto his back that Dimitri even realizes that Felix is about to piggyback him presumably back to the royal chambers. “‘M heavy,” he says into Felix’s hair, which smells good. It’s strange for Felix to think _for once._ He listens to Felix all the time.

“Compared to Annette, maybe,” Felix says. _He’s no lightweight, though._ “You’ve lost some muscle. Am I the only one in this castle who still strength trains?”

“We’re at peace,” Dimitri points out. It’s very nice of Felix to carry him, but the movement is making him a little dizzy. He rests his chin on Felix’s shoulder, closing his eye, though it only helps a little. 

“I know,” Felix says softly. _What good am I at peace? I’m a shield, not a diplomat. Fighting’s all I’ve got._

“You’re good,” Dimitri says without thinking.

“What?” Felix says. 

Felix didn’t say that part aloud, did he? He wouldn’t have said such a thing aloud, would he. “You’re good,” Dimitri says again. He coughs (“Gross.”), and finishes, “At carrying me. ‘M too old to be carried.” 

“Well, you weren’t making it back to your room on your own efforts,” Felix says, and adjusts his grip on Dimitri’s thighs. Felix has good hands, strong hands, but it can’t be easy to carry someone as big as Dimitri. _He must feel bad, if he’s letting himself be carried. Feels good to be able to help instead of just showing up to the office with more bad news we have to go through. Ugh. I’m fucking soft._ “If you’re going to be so stupid as to get sick out on the Keep wall, someone has to carry you back.” 

“Your Grace!” a guard says. “Do you need...help...carrying His Majesty…” He trails off in the manner typical of someone on the receiving end of Felix’s glare. “I’ll take that as a no, Your Grace,” he says, bowing and hurrying away. 

“I’ll carry you next time,” Dimitri says. 

“I don’t get sick,” Felix says. “Because I _take care of myself.”_

“You got sick that one time.”

“I was _nine.”_

“No,” Dimitri says, lifting his chin from Felix’s shoulder. “After the war, during that first trade summit in Arianrhod. You pretended you weren’t sick but I noticed. Then Sylvain told me after that every time you left the room it was to throw up.”

 _I’m going to kill Sylvain,_ Felix thinks. “Don’t kill him,” Dimitri says. “I knew you were sick too. Just not how sick.” Because you hid it from me, he thinks. 

“You--” _That’s why we took supper in the Faerghan rooms every night instead of with the delegation?_ “You nearly sabotaged a trade deal for me?” _Swear to the Goddess, I’m going to--_

“I fixed it,” Dimitri says. “And it was four years ago. But you wouldn't have rested unless I did too.”

“You said you were--”

That was the first year Sreng was involved in Fódlandy trade talks, and Lambert had been furious for months, following Dimitri through the castle like a shadow, howling and raging about how Dimitri was betraying Faerghus, betraying him. Whispering in his ear at night that the Srengi had poisoned Sylvain against him or that they and Edelgard were allied together to kill him and split Faerghus between them. Dimitri had gotten so bad that a month before the summit Mercedes had banished him from working, choosing to sit instead with him in his bedroom while he first raged about being deposed, and when his fury wore thin and the underlying despair revealed itself, begged her and his ghosts to kill him, or let him kill himself. What good was a ruler too mad to rule? 

He stayed in his room for a week; Mercedes had a pile of torn linens she’d stolen from the laundry staff, and he eventually helped her with the mending while Sylvain and Yuri and Felix and Ashe and Ingrid and Goddess knows who else held off the Srengi ambassador and ran the country. By the time they traveled to the trade summit, he had only been working half-days in Fhirdiad. Dimitri would have picked another battle in Ailell over evenings at summit feasts, head throbbing from shouting both real and imaginary by nightfall. With Felix already looking peaked and glassy-eyed, it was an easy decision to make, not only for his own wellbeing but Felix’s as well. 

“I was,” Dimitri says. “But you were ill too.” 

Felix drops him--gently, but Dimitri’s balance is off and he ends up falling anyway. From the floor, Dimitri realizes they’re in front of his door. Felix leans down to haul Dimitri up by the armpits and leads him inside. _I thought he hadn’t noticed. Hoped. Hoped he hadn’t noticed._

“I’m not helpless,” Dimitri says. “I need a lot of support but I notice things, too.” He’s not delirious, just too tired to care. 

“I _know_ ,” Felix snaps, pushing Dimitri into a chair and stoking the fire. There are--people, who could do this. People who are paid to do practically nothing but stoke the fires and maintain the braziers of the Keep during Guardian and Pegasus Moons. One of them will come by soon, on their route, and find the room occupied but the job already done. That seems disappointing. 

Felix’s face is a death mask as he stares into the fire, a rictus of determination and ire. He is pink-cheeked from carrying Dimitri. 

“Felix,” Dimitri says, and Felix stiffens further but doesn’t look at him. “I’m not--we’re not alone, you know? You don’t have to work yourself sick taking care of me.”

“No shit,” Felix says. “Learned that the hard way.” 

Dimitri coughs. “I’m sorry, Felix,” he says.

“Saints, don’t fucking _apologize--”_

“It seems I demand much of my friends, and offer them little in return--”

Felix snorts. “Stop pitying yourself.” 

Dimitri shakes his head. “It’s not that--it seems as though I demand care. From you, and once from Dedue as well. But neither you nor he have the responsibility of being my keeper, Felix, and I should not expect it of you. Dedue has gone on to carve his own path, but you--you’re still here. And if I have led you to believe I demand it of you, that is my mistake. ” 

“You’re an idiot.” Felix pauses. He opens his mouth again and then closes it before finally he says, “I _do_ know that.” He swallows. “I had to learn it, but you have to trust me to know it.” He says every word as though it’s being drawn from him like poison from a wound.

Dimitri opens his mouth to speak, and is interrupted by another round of coughing. 

Felix sighs, and hoists him up from the chair, dragging him into the bedroom. His hand around Dimitri’s bicep is nearly bruising, and his thoughts are rigid and strict, like Felix is forcing them into a semblance of order. _Get his boots off--then his gambeson--then--he is_ ill, _Fraldarius--put him to bed--call for Mercedes--_

“That is all I have to say on the matter, and you should rest. We have concrete evidence the country will not collapse if you spend a few days abed recovering as you should.” He sets Dimitri on the side of the bed. “Boots.” 

Dimitri yawns, leaning down to pull his boots off before pulling off his gloves. He has to pause to cough as he wrests his gambeson over his head, the effort almost too much. He doesn’t feel feverish, just achy and worn, but he is undeniably unwell. “Mercedes would be proud to have such a nurse as an ally.”

Felix snorts, and with surprisingly gentle hands pushes Dimitri down to the pillow. _Mercedes would laugh at such a thing. I’m no nursemaid._

“You are my dear friend, Felix,” Dimitri says, eyes closing. He feels as though he has been hit by a wagon and trampled. “That is more than enough.” 

There’s a long pause, and then Felix sucks in a breath and says, “Talk sense or go to sleep.” 

“All right,” Dimitri says. Felix’s hand is still on his shoulder. He thinks _Mitya is so--_ but Dimitri sinks into sleep too fast to catch the rest of it.

\--

When Dimitri wakes up, Mercedes has a hand on his forehead. She smiles at him, has him drink a thick, syrupy tea that coats his throat, and then she spells him sleepy. The spell makes him tired, though it’s dehydrating and headache-inducing, but it’s not addictive and he sleeps soundly and without nightmares. They’ve agreed it’s useful when he’s ill. When he wakes again, head pounding behind his eye sockets, Felix is at the desk in the corner of the room, looking over papers. 

“Felix,” Dimitri says hoarsely, and coughs. He’s losing his voice. 

Felix looks up at him. The light of the lantern catches the grey streaks of his hair. He’s still handsome, in his furious way, tightly coiled like a wildcat ready to strike. “Dimitri,” he says. “Drink some water.”

“What--what time is it?” It’s dark, but that means very little in Guardian Moon. The blue night has only just ended, and the days are still short. He reaches for the water left on the nightstand and drinks. His throat burns from the sleep spell and coughing. 

Felix smiles, making fun of him. “Morning,” he says. “I left, worked, trained, ate, slept, bathed, ate again, and have been here an hour already, working.”

“You have an office.”

“I do, but. I had something to say to you.” He swallows. “I wanted to tell you, since you’re not delirious. I’m only going to say it once, so don’t forget it.” He shuffles through the parchment he’s been skimming until he finds a wax tablet with notes scrawled on it. 

Felix sometimes takes notes for what he will say when it’s important to him, and that’s what makes Dimitri push himself into a sitting position. 

“I--” Felix begins. “During the war, and even after for a while, I decided I was going to leave. Abdicate my seat, and Aegis, and become a hired blade. I have no head for governance and no tact for diplomacy and you know I don’t care about _duty_.” He practically spits the word. “I had no plans to stay, and you--you never demanded it of me. I know you think you have, but you always made it clear that you did not. Sometimes you have presumptions, but that’s not the same.” 

“I made demands during the war,” Dimitri says.

Felix sighs. “You never demanded my fealty, even then. I asked for a beast and I got one.” He glances down at the tablet. “I stayed that first winter, while you were sick, because Ashe and I were the best choices to organize food distribution. We were familiar with the terrain, had run our own supply chains in Gaspard and the revolutionary counties, and we worked well together. There were ways I was useful, and--” He scowls a little--”And I was valued for myself.” He sets the tablet aside, rubbing his thumb across the surface to start to smear away what he'd written. “Do you understand?” 

“I’m--not sure--”

“I _chose_ to stay here. No one, _especially_ not you, forced me into the responsibilities I took onto myself. I could have left that winter, or after, but I didn’t. I’m not doing it out of duty or obligation. I chose to cut this path.” He glares at Dimitri. “If you claim I didn’t, I’ll never speak to you again.” 

Dimitri is sick, so that must be why he’s tearing up. He takes a hitching breath that turns into a series of wracking coughs, and spits green mucus into a handkerchief from the neatly folded pile Mercedes left on the cabinet next to his bed. 

Felix sighs. “As if you could force me into this,” he says. “You can’t even go a year without getting sick.” 

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri says. “For being so presumptuous.” 

“Stop fucking apologizing,” Felix says, as he usually does when Dimitri apologizes. “And go back to sleep or let me finish my work.” 

“You have an office,” Dimitri says again. Felix snarls down at his paper, a wordless, enraged sound, and Dimitri can’t help but smile at him as he dozes off again. 

\--

When he wakes up later, from a nightmare this time, Hapi’s reading a book in a chair next to the small glassed window in his room. It’s light out, so it must be midday. He coughs wetly into his pillow and worms an arm out of the blankets so he doesn’t feel so trapped. 

“Hey, Didi,” Hapi says.

“Feel like shit,” he mumbles, his voice cracking halfway through. 

“You look like it, too,” Hapi says, closing her book. “And Mercie had me come sit with you because you sounded all rattly while you were sleeping.” 

“I’m fine,” Dimitri says automatically, not fine. 

“Liar,” Hapi says, setting the book aside. “You’re swearing so you must feel terrible. Speaking of feeling terrible, Felix came out of here this morning like a cat on fire. What’s up with him?” 

The memory comes back to him all at once: Felix, saying _I chose to cut this path_. The way his heart twisted and leapt as Felix said the one thing that would have put Dimitri at ease. Knowing, without even having to touch him, that Felix would never say such a thing for Dimitri’s sake unless it were true. 

He’s heard a lot of secrets in the last three weeks, but he’s kept them secret, too, even to Hapi at teatime. They’re not his to tell, but this is more than that. This secret has Dimitri at the center of it, has Dimitri entwined up all in it and around it, and he doesn’t know what to do anymore. 

“Hapi,” he croaks, suddenly miserable, and Hapi stands up and kneels next to the bed, helping him drink some water.

“Are you about to kick it? Should I get someone?” 

Dimitri hacks out a laugh. “I’m not _dying_ ,” he says raspily. “I have a cough.” 

“Just checking,” Hapi says. “You sounded pretty serious. And you don’t have a _cough_ , you’re halfway to consumptive.” 

Dimitri ignores her as he sits up, leaning back against the pillows. “Hapi,” he starts, and she looks at him. “If you found something out, something about you, that affected you, but was a secret…”

“Seiros, will you quit it with the hypotheticals? What did you hear?” 

“Felix is…” he swallows, with difficulty. “He’s in love with me.”

Hapi sits back on her heels. “Huh,” she says. 

“What?” 

“He’s weird as shit about you,” Hapi says. “That explains it.” She narrows her eyes. “You’re weird as shit about him too.” 

“I--” Dimitri says, and flops back against the pillows. “I might be,” he says. “If I can even--”

“Uh-uh, no wallowing when you’re sick, unless it’s about being sick,” Hapi says. “Hapi rule.”

“Sorry,” Dimitri says.

“‘Sides, isn’t being weird as shit about someone just what love is? Or one type of love, at least. You know s’well as I do that there are different ways to love someone.” 

“What if--” Dimitri has to stop and cough. Hapi offers him a fresh handkerchief to spit into.”What if it’s not enough?” 

“Then it’s not enough, and you live with it,” Hapi says. “Do you want something with him?”

Dimitri blows his nose. “I hadn’t considered it, until--” He coughs again. “It wasn’t even in the realm of possibility.”

“Didi, you’re so clueless,” Hapi says fondly. “Still didn’t answer my question, though.” 

“I don’t know if _he_ wants it,” Dimitri says. “Just because he loves me doesn’t mean he wants to act on it. And I don’t want to make him--”

“Like you could make Felix do anything,” Hapi says. “Do _you_ want to act on it?”

It’s too late for me, Dimitri almost says, and remembers Hapi’s _no wallowing_ rule. Even if it’s true, dwelling on it will annoy her. “I...maybe?” He thinks about sparring with Felix, Felix imagining them together, about lying in bed and thinking about it himself. About Felix’s hair, silver streaks set aflame by the lantern-light. “Yes,” he says. 

“Huh,” Hapi says again.

“What?”

“I really thought you were going to go into some sort of _I don’t deserve it, it’s too late for me to ever live my life, I must atone for my sins_ bullshit.”

“Well, I--” Dimitri starts, and Hapi slaps his arm. He smiles slightly. “You said _no wallowing_ , and I am in fact a creature capable of listening and learning.”

Hapi’s lips curl into a smile. “Well, color me shocked,” she says, and stands up and leans over to kiss him on the forehead. _He’s better than he could be. Than he’s been before. I’m glad._ “Do you want to go back to sleep?” 

Dimitri shakes his head and regrets it a little, dizzy. “No,” he says. “Not yet. Tell me about the book you’re reading. Did Ashe lend it to you?”

“Yes, and it’s halfway decent,” Hapi says. “Do you want to hear some of it? It’s an epic poem about the Luna Knight, written by some Fhirdiadan bard traveling in exile during the war. Ashe says she slays a despotic witch in a northern city in the next part.” She lifts her eyebrows at him. 

“I’d love to hear such a poem,” Dimitri says. “Don’t consider it an insult if I fall back asleep, though.”

“I absolutely will,” Hapi says, smirking, and opens the book. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 5: “This isn’t easy for me,” Felix snaps, and then looks unusually chastened.
> 
> it might take a while, though! of all the chapters so far, 5 is the messiest rn >_< I'm hoping it'll be up in the next couple weeks, and the epilogue will go with it (that's done). 
> 
> thanks for all your support and encouragement so far! I've gotten some really lovely comments on this fic and I treasure them. I'm doing my best to reply to every comment, though it may take a little while! 
> 
> [twitter @ coaIsack](http://twitter.com/coaisack)  
> my other haunts + ways to support me at [nebulia.carrd.co](http://nebulia.carrd.co)

**Author's Note:**

> \You can find me on [twitter @ CoaIsack](http://twitter.com/coaIsack) and I also have a [carrd](http://nebulia.carrd.co) that directs to my other haunts! 
> 
> All comments and kudos are appreciated! I try to reply to all comments but can't make promises.


End file.
